Mocklore Box Set
Tansy Rayner Roberts
The Mocklore Box Set: copyright © 2018 by Tansy Rayner Roberts
Splashdance Silver: copyright © 1998 by Tansy Rayner Roberts
Liquid Gold: copyright © 1999 by Tansy Rayner Roberts
Ink Black Magic: copyright © 2013 by Tansy Rayner Roberts
Bounty: copyright © 2016 by Tansy Rayner Roberts
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art & design of The Mocklore Omnibus by Tania Walker copyright © 2016
Created with Vellum
Contents
SPLASHDANCE SILVER
1. With Snow Comes Beginnings
2. Braided Bones
3. The Art of Traitors
4. Get me the Gargoyle
5. Lordlings and Ladybirds
6. Camelot
7. The Earth Moves for Everyone
8. Playing with Fire
9. Shopping with Ice
10. Killing Time
11. Wise Fruitcakes
12. Splashdown
13. The Mating Habits of Trolls
14. Tender Moments Hurt the Ones You Love
15. Ruthless Economies
16. Ghosts and Epic-poetry
17. Glimmer
18. Plague
19. The Witch’s Web
20. Sleeping with the Fishies
21. Telling Tales
22. Muddy Weather
23. A Royal Reception
24. Breaking Things
25. Hitting Things
26. Losing Things
27. Putting Things Back Together
LIQUID GOLD
1: Gold, Gold, the Mistress of Us All
2: Death by Trinket
3: Thunderdust
4: Black goes with Everything
5: The Priestess and the Profit-scoundrel
6: Chainmail, Ale and Deathless Prose
7: Take one Giggling Villain…
8: Dealing with Your Own Demise
9: Stitching up the Minestaurus
10: Fishcakes and Philosophy
11: Kpow
12: Matchmaking as a Last Resort
13: A Party of Paradoxes
14: The Great Pomegranate Quest
15: The Year of the Greyest Winter
16: Oracles Etc.
17: Tomorrow’s Yore
18: Blackmailing the Boatman
19: The Other Silversword (Imperator Aragon I)
20: Rusty Ballads
21: Bodices and Snowdrifts
22: Escape Plans and a Three-headed Hound
23: A Sparrow Falls
24: How Not To Use Magic In the Underworld
25: Lady Luck
26: The Other Dame Crosselet
27: Gods, Politics and One of Those Kisses
28: Not Letting Sleeping Wenches Lie
29: Faeryland with Teeth
30: Unfinished Business
INK BLACK MAGIC
Extract from The Polyhedrotechnical College Prospectus of Higher Learning
1. Magic is a Bad Bad Thing
2. Breakfast of Heroes and Villains
3. Just How Dark should a Dark City Be?
4. Poached Albatross and the Demon Dance
5. Justice and Black Lace
6. The Summoning of Ghosts
7. Cloak and Dagger
8. A Compelling Proposal
9. How Drak Won the War
10. The Room with the Big Swirly Vortex
11. Harmony
12. Into the Light
13. Drak Side of the Light
14. The Great Reversing Barrel
15. Bright Rain
16. The Essence of Romance
17. The Calm Between Catastrophes
18. Day of the Dead
19. Fighting with Folklore
20. The Biggest, Baddest Villain of Them All
BOUNTY
I. Bounty Fenetre is not a bounty hunter
Hobgoblin Boots
Queen of Courtesans
II. Delta Void is Not a Mercenary
Delta Void and the Unicorn Soup
Delta Void’s Day Off
Delta Void and the Clockwork Man
Delta Void and the Stray God
BONUS CONTENT
Essay - “Boots are Pretty: Femme Fantasy and the Mocklore Stories”
Essay - “The Boobs, the Bad and the Broomsticks”
The Great Abridged Mocklore Chronological Timeline
Also by Tansy Rayner Roberts
About the Author
SPLASHDANCE SILVER
Mocklore Chronicles #1
1
With Snow Comes Beginnings
There are only three truly important questions in the universe. The first deals with why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. The second is terrifyingly simple, concerning what true love really means, and why nearly true love is so much healthier for all concerned. The third most important question in the universe is about pirates.
In the little Empire of Mocklore, from the troublesome and hairy town of Axgaard to the scholarly and puddlesome Cluft, from the bleak, crime-ridden streets of Dreadnought to the gold-paved avenues of Zibria, from the enigmatic mysteries of the Troll Triangle to the blatant impossibilities of the Skullcaps, every now and again a Pirate of Note is born. No one knows why.
Anyone can be a pirate, of course. The most ordinary of farmboys can buy himself an eyepatch and run away to sea. But a Pirate of Note is always marked in some particular way. They might have a magnificently jutting brow, a surprising beard, or a third eye in the most unexpected of places. For instance, the daughter of Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp had hair the colour of old blood and a birthmark shaped like a decapitated skeleton.
The third most truly important question in the universe is this: why is it so important that potential Pirates of Note be marked in such a melodramatic way? What would happen, what could happen if such a person ignored such a sign, and chose to avert that destiny? What if a Pirate of Note did not want to be a pirate?
In the Whet and Whistle Tavern and Grillhouse, the music started. It rose and fell and then rose again, just because it could. Then it faltered and went away. Half a dozen clumsily-carved harmonicas were cast aside. She hadn’t arrived yet, and no one saw any point in making music until she was there.
Finally, the door scrunched open. They all looked up hopefully, but it was only the Captain of the Dreadnought Blackguards. He stood for a moment in the doorway, dripping melted snow on the floor. The Captain was a hunched man with weary eyes, sagging shoulders and a personality that only lasted for thirty seconds at a time. He said gloomily, “We’ve got a new Emperor.”
“Ar,” said Sparky the barman.
“It’s a woman,” added the Captain as he slouched on to his usual stool.
Sparky raised an eyebrow. “Ar?”
“I want a drink,” said the Captain.
In the corner, an old man said, “The winds, they are a changing,” but this was the sort of thing he always said, and no one took any notice.
The woman with hair the colour of old blood scurried through the first snow of winter and the damp streets of Dreadnought. She was late for work, and she had a suspicion that a pigseller had been following her for the last half hour. She stumbled on the slippery cobbles, and a familiar voice loomed up behind her. “Wanna buy a pig, lady?”
She lost he
r temper, good and proper. “I don’t want a pig! I don’t want to roast one for a dinner party, I don’t want to tether one to my apple tree and keep it in my garden and I don’t want to put one on a shelf to look at all day. I don’t care if it does tricks, wears hats or sings a wonderful harmony! Will you leave me alone, you repulsive little merchant?”
“Only tryin’ to do my job, miss,” said the old man dejectedly. “There is a recession on, you know.”
“You might sell more if you didn’t stalk your customers!” snapped Kassa Daggersharp.
The pigseller’s eyes lit up at this glimpse of encouragement. “Like to buy a rabbit, then?”
“Goodbye,” said Kassa, turning on her heel and trying to keep her balance as she hurried along the slippery streets. The merchants were getting worse.
It wasn’t much of a dungeon. The ceiling was not a very grisly shade of grey, there was no raw sewage trickling down the walls, and it was too well insulated for the screams of other prisoners to be heard.
Nevertheless, Aragon Silversword did not want to be there. He certainly deserved to be there—he was probably the only prisoner who was genuinely guilty of the exact crime he had been charged with, but that didn’t make the accommodation any more appealing.
He had been waiting for three years. He was not waiting to be let out. That implied hope. He was just waiting. Waiting for the heavy hour chime of the palace to seep down to him. Waiting for his daily visit by one of the wardens, to bring him food and water (after spitting in it). Waiting to sleep so that he could wake up and start it all over again.
The door opened. Gordage stood there, a chicken bone hanging in the thick bristles of his beard. He was Aragon’s least favourite warden. Gordage peered at the prisoner, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Why you on yer head?” he said finally.
Aragon was standing on his hands, his long legs folded up against the wall, so he chose not to shrug in reply. Instead, he broke one of his cardinal rules by actually speaking to a warden. “I thought I would try it for a month. Perhaps two. There’s nothing like a new perspective on life. I imagine that chicken bone in your beard feels the same way.”
Gordage grunted. “Come on, then.”
That was not something Aragon had ever expected to hear from a warden. “I beg your pardon?”
“Yer being let out.”
“Why?”
“New Emperor.”
“The fourth this year,” said Aragon acidly. “None of the others saw fit to release me.”
“She wants to see yer,” grunted Gordage.
Aragon’s interest had been aroused. His legs unfolded. He pushed lightly off the floor with his hands, landed on his feet and stood up straight. “She?”
Ranulf Godrickskeyridge was the only man left who remained loyal to the last ‘true’ Emperor. Timregis the Puce had ruled Mocklore for fifty-five years before his champion, a scoundrel by the name of Silversword, had betrayed him and sent the Empire into confusion. Dozens of Emperors had succeeded him, not one of them lasting longer than three months. Nobody else in the city of Dreadnought or in the whole Mocklore Empire gave a purple ferret about Timregis. He had, after all, been a raving idiot. The recent chain of ineffectual Emperors had proven to the population of the city what they had always suspected: one Emperor is as bad as another, so you might as well let them get on with it.
But Ranulf was loyal. For some strange reason, Ranulf cared. Every time a new Emperor popped up, there was Ranulf with his revolutionary flag. Of course, his revolutions had never actually contributed to the downfall of any of the ‘pretender’ Emperors—most of them had either been executed, evicted for tax-evasion or had absconded from the Palace in the dead of night with a big bag of Imperial loot and a worried expression on their faces.
Ranulf Godrickskeyridge crept in through the window. This is not as easy a task as it sounds, as the window in question was fourteen floors up and the Imperial Palace had not yet installed drainpipes. He gripped his flag, closed his eyes and tumbled forward into the room shouting, “Death to the False Emperor who usurps the rightful power of the…”
The new Emperor reclined on a chaise longue of purple feathers. A silver headdress dripped down over her golden hair, and her long, lithe body was draped in soft silver silk.
She opened her eyes and spoke in a voice of honey and cinnamon. “Hello, there. Can I help you?”
Ranulf smiled weakly. “Wrong palace?” Very slowly, he began to edge back towards the window.
The golden woman raised a languid finger and pointed it in his direction. “Stop.”
Ranulf froze to the floor. The idea of disobeying her was too painful to consider. She extended a perfect arm and touched a length of silk which spiralled from the ceiling. A melodious chime shimmered through the chamber.
A servant in black and white livery entered immediately, as if he had been hovering outside the door. “My Lady Emperor?”
The woman gestured at Ranulf with a flick of her perfect manicure. “Take him away and lock him in a barrel with as many tarantulas as you can find. At least a dozen, preferably twenty.” And she smiled, a killer smile.
The servant bowed slowly, squaring his round shoulders. “As my Lady Emperor commands.” He snapped his fingers at Ranulf, who followed him nervously out of the chamber.
The 38th Emperor of Mocklore smiled at the mirrored ceiling as she lay back on her purple feathered chaise longue. A thousand languid smiles reflected hers. “I could get used to this,” she murmured.
The Empire was hers, and hers alone. She couldn’t afford it, of course, but lack of finances had never bothered her before when making a major purchase.
Leonardes of Skullcap stretched his long, thick fingers against the desk. “I think we have a problem, Daggar.”
Daggar, a seedy looking man who was either trying for a beard or was just bad at shaving, shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t know what you mean, Chief.”
Cold eyes burned into him from across the desk. “I think you should,” said Leonardes.
“Oh, I do,” said Daggar hastily, sensing danger. “Course I do. You’re not happy, Chief. That’s the problem.”
“Indeed it is,” said Leonardes. He stabbed a finger at the scroll before him. “Your file, Daggar. Petty theft, petty deals, petty profiteering. This is just not good enough.”
“Well,” said Daggar, swallowing hard, “I don’t like to aim too high, Chief. It calls attention to yourself, and I know you don’t like us to call attention to ourselves.”
“What makes you think that?” said Leonardes mildly. “Attention reflects your success. You just don’t like to stick your neck out, so you spend your time, our time, on petty crimes that promise little return. That is no way to be a successful profit-scoundrel, Daggar.”
“In my experience, Chief, if you stick your neck out in this city, it gets bloody well chopped off…” Daggar paused bravely. The pause became longer and more dangerous until he added a hasty, “Sir.”
Leonardes smiled. Nastily. “If I don’t see something substantial on your file within one moon, I am going to have to assume that you have no wish to continue your service to the Profithood. And that means you shall have to be retired.”
“Retired?” croaked Daggar, knowing full well that the only way you retired from the Profithood was by jumping into a deep lake with a gravestone chained to both legs.
“Retired,” repeated Leonardes. “If you want the protection and rewards of the Profithood, then you will return something substantial. A theft, a deal, a scheme…some kind of profit. It is full moon tomorrow night, is it not? You have one moon from then, Daggar. That is all.”
Cheerful noises were coming from the Whet and Whistle Tavern and Grill, now that she had arrived. She was a golden-eyed siren with blood-coloured hair, voluptuous in a costume of knotted silk. There was magic in her voice. She had even managed to cheer up the dismal Captain, who was watching her swinging hips with studied disinterest.
She began to dance
now, turning her body upside down and inside out in rapid succession as she sang a fast, breezy song at the top of her extraordinary vocal range. And then the song changed.
The harmonica players, who were exhausted from trying to keep up with her, swapped their harmonica for a collection of old wooden flutes, squabbling only briefly over who got the one with the crack in the end.
The siren sang an ancient ballad which told the tragic story of two lovers, various melodramatic complications, a deep river and the ultimately predictable conclusion. Her dancing slowed, becoming languorous and curved. Her whole body grieved for the tragic lovers as her rich voice described their final poignant moments.
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